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It was already late in the evening, and to be honest, I was so damn tired of this endless messing around with rags, of the smell of Domestos that had seeped into the skin of my fingers, of the draft crawling along my legs because the windows were wide open — “to air it out after cleaning,” as I now told myself. My knees ached like I’d really been living in this body not for a week, but for ten freaking years. But the strangest thing was, all this stuff — the cleaning, dusting, cooking, and even the endless floor scrubbing — gave me some weird satisfaction. Which, frankly, pissed me off, but at the same time brought this strange peace into my soul. And, damn it, a sense of pride. I still can’t believe it, but I was actually proud of it all — especially when I got confirmation from my, God forgive me, husband...
I froze for a second, stretching out my back, which ached again from the bend, then stood up and wrung out the rag over the bucket, watching the cloudy, chemical-smelling water drip from the ends, and then dropped back to my knees. The floor under my palms was damp, cool, and smelled faintly of bleach. The rag slid unpleasantly under my hand, making my fingers tremble from fatigue. I could feel how the fabric of my “home” dress, with those stupid little flowers, clung to my now noticeably rounder hips that I could feel constantly. And every time I leaned forward, my breasts — goddamn it, my tits — jiggled and rubbed against the inner edge of my bra, like they were doing it on purpose, just to remind me: ‘Yeah, this is you now. A woman. A real one. And there’s no getting out of it.’
He should be here soon, so I at least needed to get up and pull myself together... I looked at the door from under my brows the way I’d never dared look at him when he was around. The door with its grimy handle — the one through which each of his returns seemed to split my day in half: “before him” and “with him” — was shut. Something twisted in my gut — not from fear, no, but from that strange, humiliating feeling of waiting. I wasn’t the type to ever sit at home hanging on my husband’s every word. I used to be... I used to be him. Dylan Huntley, thirty-three years old, Austin resident, owner of an auto shop with six employees and one dog named Murphy. I lived alone, sure, dated some girls, but never really saw them as wife material. They were all too... how should I put it... too independent. Too full of character, ambition, always going on about “self-actualization” and “boundaries.” Not that I was against it — I even admired it sometimes, until they started chewing my ass out for staying late at the garage or losing their shit because apparently I “didn’t know how to express emotions.” And all I fucking wanted was peace after a shift. A beer. A bowl of chili. And no one nagging me...